


Pieces

by gildedfrost



Series: Reverse AU: Hands [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Amnesia, Body Image, Domestic, Family, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Self-Harm, Trans Male Character, Valentine's Day, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:24:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22760167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: Connor wakes up to find that he's missing years of memories. Now he's married to an android and his body is near unrecognizable, and he struggles to fill in the gaps and put himself back together again.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Series: Reverse AU: Hands [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585036
Comments: 22
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags.
> 
> This fic is part of a series, but can be read standalone.
> 
> Changed the title from "Shattered" to "Pieces" because I think it fits better.

Connor floats in an expanse of grey. He feels hot and cold and numb, and there’s an ache in his head, which simultaneously feels like a ball of cotton and a heavy bag of rocks. Words try and fail to form phrases in his mind, leaving him unable to form coherent thoughts. There isn’t anything here to understand in this vast sea of nothingness, and he feels as if he’s just off the edge from something that makes sense, sitting on the fringes of reality, his only connection a pain drilling into his skull.

The pain fades, leaving him with nothing once more, and then even that leaves him as he dips back into unconsciousness.

* * *

It’s quiet when he wakes.

He’s in a hospital. The curtains are drawn, but the light bouncing off of them is bright like dawn. Machines surround him, some of which he’s attached to. Footsteps walk down the hallway outside, shoes clicking brightly on the tiles, followed by the low, rumbling sound of something big being wheeled around.

He lies idly, staring at the ceiling and walls for some minutes while he wakes, head filled with a thick fog. It doesn’t occur to him yet to wonder why he’s here or what happened to him, but when he shifts slightly, a sharp pain shoots through his hip all the way up to his head, pulling a gasp from him.

Moving is out of the question, then. He returns to simply looking around, his sluggish mind trying to process details. The curtains are a pristine white, either new or freshly cleaned. There is a TV hanging on the wall across from him, with the remote at his side and his phone beside that. He lifts his arm hesitantly, and while it pulls at the pain in his hip--or just above it, rather--it’s not overwhelming. Still, he stops his hand before it reaches the phone, staring at his arm.

The hospital gown makes him feel bare, but the lack of coverage on his arms is even more uncomfortable. He usually covers them, or at least wears t-shirts with longer sleeves to keep the scars on his upper arms hidden, but now his entire arms are uncovered and littered in scars. Nearly every inch has a mark, whether a dark red or a pale white, faint or flat or puffy and broad.

It wasn’t like that before.

Before?

He looks back up at the ceiling. He moves his other arm--no pain, this time--and runs his fingers across his skin, feeling the scars. They feel real, impossibly so. He’s never made those marks, and he’s not sure his current blade even could.

He can’t remember what that one looks like.

His hands are familiar, with their worn down nails and skin missing from the tip of one finger, but one of the nails is cracked down the middle and another looks like it’s grown back the wrong way, too thick and uneven. On his left hand, he wears a simple gold band.

There’s an itch on his face, and when he scratches, he feels stubble under his fingers. He furrows his eyebrows and feels across his unshaven chin, the prickly hairs rough and foreign. This much should be impossible without T.

His frown deepens. He’s never been on T, he knows that, and yet he can visualize holding a vial and needle, can imagine their weight and shape perfectly in his hands.

Curiously, he feels across his chest. It’s flat and absent of any binding. He can’t feel any scars through the gown, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any.

He checks the band on his wrist.

_ARKAIT, CONNOR. DOB: 08-15-2005 36M. ALLERGY: LATEX, BANANAS._

His eyes dart to a calendar on the wall he’d passed over earlier. It’s February, 2042, except it can’t be 2042, because it’s…

It’s not 2042. That’s all he knows. He’s not thirty-six years old; he hasn’t gotten a job since graduating college, which means he should be in his twenties right now, even if he can’t place it. He knows he’s never had a surgery, never cut his wrists, never even whispered the name _Connor_ to anyone else in his life.

A stubborn part of him also says he has no allergies and a few letters printed on a piece of paper can’t stop him from having a banana with lunch as he usually does, but he thinks that’s something he might not want to test. Swapping to apples might be a good idea.

Connor grabs his phone, relieved when it unlocks at his touch. It seems like a security concern, having a fingerprint-locked device that anyone could have gained access to while he was unconscious, but he can’t for the life of him remember the passcode. He doesn’t think he could have, anyway; this isn’t his phone, even if it is. Someone plugged it in to charge.

Missed calls, missed messages, notifications from twenty different apps. He ignores them, flicking open the camera app instead and switching it to selfie mode.

The man looking back at him has his eyes, but nothing else looks familiar. His face is narrower, less soft; his hair is cut short; and there are bags under his eyes and a few small, faded scars on his left cheek. The stubble is dark and scruffy.

It’s too much. He closes the camera and tosses the phone aside, feeling a pressure well up inside of him. Tears start leaking out of his eyes and he sniffles, confusion and distress rushing up to overwhelm him. He tries to fight them back, but he can’t help crying, quiet and alone and lost in a hospital room.

A nurse steps in by the time he’s done crying. He feels empty. They look him over and he answers all their questions, glossing over his confusion. He wants to figure out what’s going on before he says anything. His wild suspicions--time travel, or that he’s woken up in a parallel universe--slide away in favor of the simple answer of amnesia once the nurse tells him he’s suffered a traumatic brain injury. The nurse will call his family, they say. He’s been out for a few days and they’ve come to visit him for hours each day. He can leave later today as long as there’s someone who can watch after him.

His chest constricts at that thought. He doesn’t want his brothers to see him like this, looking a mess and with his arms bare, and he sure as hell isn’t ready to come out to them. But he must be out to them, unless he moved away and cut off contact, but then he doesn’t think they’d be here visiting him in the hospital.

And what about his parents? Did they come to accept his brothers, both of whom were scolded for not being straight? Would they accept Connor as he is now? He hopes so. He very dearly hopes so.

The thought of either of his brothers rejecting him makes his tears start again. He doesn’t want this. He wants to feel safe and comfortable, not afraid that he’ll never see his family again. He wants to know what the hell is going on. It doesn’t feel like he’s lost his memory, but would he even know if he had? He knows things to be fact, and yet his eyes tell him another story. It’s unnerving.

There’s a knock at the door as the first visitors arrive, and then it opens to reveal two men he doesn’t recognize.

The first is a bald black man, dressed in a well-fitted shirt and tie and carrying a coat in his arms, who strides in with purpose, his gaze softening when he sees Connor. The second is an older white man with grey hair and beard, wearing a shirt that Connor only barely manages to categorize as visually offensive before the man is at his side, draping his coat over the back of a chair before sitting in it and reaching for one of Connor’s hands (which Connor had covered with the sheet, still not sure yet what to do about his arms).

The man’s hands envelop Connor’s, and he gazes at Connor in earnest, to which Connor returns a tired smile. His eyes glance up at a motion to see a spinning gold light at the man’s temple, and then Connor is very confused. He’s never interacted with an android past a coffee order before.

“Hey, Connor,” the man--android--says. “You’re finally awake.”

His eyes are light blue. Connor decides he likes them a lot.

“Walked right into that Imperial ambush,” Connor says distractedly, nodding. His voice is rough from disuse, and it’s going to take some time to get used to how it sounds now. He barely registers the other man sighing, instead watching as the android’s LED flickers blue. It looks like his face brightens up, but he’s an android, so that can’t be right.

“You kinda did.”The android squeezes his hand. “How are you feeling?”

Is this his android? Did he finally go and get himself an android? Did his brothers find out about all his mental shit and get him some private care model? “Like shit,” Connor says. He shifts and grimaces as the wound in his side twinges, but it’s easier now that the nurse gave him more pain meds. “I don’t remember exactly what happened. Did I hit my head?”

“You were out working on a case,” the other man says. “Someone apparently didn’t like that. Hank said you got cornered and hit by a crowbar, then shot by a second suspect who was trying to shoot Hank.”

“I got patched up fine,” the android says, patting his own shoulder. Hank, then. “I still got benched for the rest of the fucking week, though. Can you believe it? I’m so goddamned bored.”

Connor blinks slowly. A case… it was Nines who wanted to be a lawyer, but Connor wouldn’t put it past himself to work towards something like that. It puts a damper on his dreams of being a marine biologist, but he’s always wanted to help people, not just animals. “Should’ve passed out for a few days instead.”

Why would an android be bored? Perhaps it’s part of the humanization features. This one is creepily realistic in his personality, and Connor wonders if, before this, he accepted it as normal after having slowly acclimated to the growing presence of androids in Detroit.

The android has a gold ring. Odd.

Hank is talking, but Connor misses most of it, only catching the last few words. “--think Jeffrey would let me,” he says, nodding towards the other man.

“You’ve got two weeks’ leave,” Jeffrey tells Connor. “As far as I know, Hank’s going to help you out for the weekend and your brothers will share the responsibility next week. If you need more time, you let me know, okay? We want you fully recovered from this concussion before you so much as think about work again.”

“Then you’ll be on desk duty,” Hank says. “Ben and Gavin are covering for us right now. Sucks, I know. The one case we’re partnered up for and this shit happens.”

“Sucks,” Connor says. He wonders what his salary is. Lawyers are salaried, right? They don’t have time cards? He pulls his hand back from Hank so he can resume hiding his arm under the sheet. It’s difficult, given the compulsion to bite his nails. “How soon can I get out of here? I don’t want to try what passes for food in this place. Do I have clothes?”

“August’s bringing clothes, and you can be discharged in a couple hours. The breakfast here is passable,” Hank says. “They’ve got oranges.”

“No bananas?”

Hank laughs, the sound startling Connor and making him jump. “Not for you, dumbass.”

“Oranges will have to suffice.” Connor stares at the ceiling again, confused and frustrated. Jeffrey is his boss. Hank is an android who works in the same place as him, but not usually with him. Ben and Gavin are presumably humans who work alongside them all. He wants to ask where, exactly, they all work, and what sort of case someone would have shot him over, but his nerves are pulled taut. He doesn’t want to show more weakness than he already is; it’s humiliating despite the easy demeanor he’s trying to keep. It doesn’t feel like anything is quite real. He doesn’t want to address his gender and his mental health with anyone.

He doesn’t realize he’s picking his nails under the sheet until Hank’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “You won’t be here much longer, I promise. We’ll go home and you can take it easy for a while. Read some books, watch your fish… The doctor said you can’t overdo it on TV, though. Or anything else with a screen.”

“Quelle horreur. And you say you’re bored?”

“And you’ve gotta lay off the caffeine.”

“Connor?” comes a voice from the doorway as August and Nines pop their heads in. Connor smiles nervously back at them, feeling exposed as if he’s being outed (even though he can’t be outed to them anymore, logically, but he never came out to them himself, and that’s a whole other level of discomfort).

They both look… older. Tired. Worried. August looks the same as Connor did in his camera, even down to the haircut, but much less scruffy. Nines is similar, with a little variation in his hair--it’s longer and darker, and Connor doesn’t know if it’s dyed or not--and both are wearing jackets. August has a backpack over his shoulder, probably with Connor’s clothing in it, and Nines has a tray of what must be Connor’s breakfast. The two of them look like they’ve grown, their frames and faces different, and even the way they carry themselves has changed.

It scares him, how much he’s missed out on. How unfamiliar even his brothers are to him now, even when it feels like no time has passed at all since he last saw them. He doesn’t exactly remember when that was, but he’s sure it wasn’t long ago--and yet was very long ago.

They pull up seats as Jeffrey waves goodbye, saying he needs to get back to work and grumbling something about Saturdays, which doesn’t exactly explain why the date is suddenly so far forward but does explain why everyone is able to visit him on such short notice.

Nines sets down the tray before leaning over to hug Connor tightly, and August manages to shuffle his way in after for his own hug. “We’ve missed you,” Nines says, setting the tray in Connor’s lap. “How are you doing? How long have you been awake?” He touches Connor’s cheek. “You look tired.”

“Aw, you guys missed me? That’s nice.”

“He’s a little out of it, but he’ll be fine,” Hank says confidently. He probably knows Connor well. Connor still can’t place him as a work android or a personal android.

“He says that all the time,” August says, leaning forward with an arm on the bed. He taps the tray of food. “C’mon, eat this so we can justify junk food for lunch.”

It makes Connor feel warm that both his brothers are here and recognize his name and gender. “Fine, alright, for the sake of junk food,” he says, nonchalantly reaching for the orange. (The rubbery sausage and white bread don’t appeal at all.)

No one stares at him as he eats or at his arms, the three others picking up a casual conversation without talking too much about Connor. Halfway through his orange, he worries at a nail with his teeth, stopping after a sideways glance from Nines. The food makes him feel a little refreshed and more energetic, like his head might actually be screwed on right today despite everything, and some of his stress dissipates.

Connor’s much more comfortable when he’s wearing actual clothes--a cozy sweatshirt and some jeans, with comfortable boots--and when he gets wheeled out, he’s hungry for a real meal and feels the pain creeping up again. It’s snowing, a few inches of soft, fluffy snow carpeting the ground and making the roads slick. They grab his prescription and some lunch--Chinese takeout, a fair compromise between comfort food and nutrients--and end up stopping outside a house he doesn’t recognize.

The four of them pile out of the car and August claps his back. “Bet you’re relieved to be home, yeah? Shitty weather notwithstanding.”

“I’m not the one driving in it,” Connor says. He’s trying not to think too much about the house. Is this really his? It’s small, a single story, but looks nice. “If it keeps up, I’ll be out making snowmen while the rest of you are out working. Or babysitting me, supposedly.”

“You’re gonna hate us before this is all over, I’ll bet on it.”

Hank unlocks the door and the rest of them follow.

The place is clean and tidy. The interior is a mix of blues, greens, and whites, with plants set tastefully about the place and a couple of neat bookshelves against the wall. There’s a TV on one wall and a few small, framed paintings. The kitchen, visible from the entrance, is moderately sized; probably more than one man needs, but definitely nice. A large fish tank rests in the living room, a few brightly colored fish darting about while a small loach nibbles at something on a rock.

It’s also terribly bland, Connor thinks with a frown. There’s no personality here. It’s like the place got pulled right out of an Ikea magazine, sans shark. There’s a record player beside the fish tank with some worn records beside it--and he can’t recall ever having an interest in vinyl, so it’s very odd--but otherwise, the place is too spotless.

He’s guided towards a couch by a steady hand. Nines sits beside him, offering two pills and a glass of water. Connor wonders if he still goes by Nines or if he’s dropped the nickname entirely. It’s not like he doesn’t go by Aiden--or maybe he doesn’t like that name anymore. Connor wouldn’t know anymore.

“You look like you’re in pain,” Nines says quietly. The other two prepare dishes in the kitchen. Connor knocks back the pills with some water. “How much does it hurt?”

“Not too bad yet, but I don’t think everything’s worn off yet,” Connor says. Leaning back into the couch, he lets out a sigh. It’s so soft. He drinks more of the water, having not realized until now how thirsty he’s been.

“At least the worst is over.” Nines smiles, and it’s something that looks like it hasn’t changed over the years, still the same quiet warmth that he always has. “If you’re up for it, could I bring my daughter to see you later today?”

Connor chokes.

“Easy,” Nines says, rubbing Connor’s back soothingly. “Drink slowly. Don’t push yourself too hard. You’ve been out for days.”

“Yeah,” Connor says hoarsely. His brother has a daughter. What the fuck. He runs a hand through his hair, wincing at the greasy feel of it. “I’m good. Everything’s just… a lot.” He waves a hand ambiguously in the air.

The explanation appears satisfactory. Hank and August join them on the sofas, offering the two of them bowls and chopsticks, and hunger hits Connor like a truck. He dives into his food, shoving it into his mouth until the edge of his hunger is gone, and it’s only then that he realizes Hank is actually eating food with them.

How strange. Maybe Hank is primarily a household or companion model. The ring still doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t miss the fact that it looks very similar to his own, but there’s no way he’d be desperate enough to, what, play house with his own android? There’s probably a good reason this android has a ring. Connor, on the other hand, might be married.

It’s a worrying thought. Did his husband not care to show up at the hospital? Is his husband away, either on a trip or with the military? Is he a widower? Nobody’s said a word about him. (Connor’s sure he would be married to a man. The thought of all of a sudden not being gay turns his stomach.)

“Did anyone else come to see me?” Connor asks, poking at the remains of his food while everyone else is finishing up. He can’t remember the last time he had such a companionable meal.

“Everyone from the precinct stopped by once or twice,” Hank says. There’s a smear of orange sauce on his lips. “Jordan and Eric dropped off cards. Elijah came as a courtesy, but I think he’s just trying to make a good impression with his future in-laws. I told him he can go get fucked.”

Connor grins. He doesn’t know any of these people, but the last bit sounds amusing even as it brings up a whole load of new questions. “Thanks for sparing me the hassle.”

“I’ll bring Charlie over later. Might cheer you up,” August says through a mouthful of food.

“That’d be great,” Connor says, with absolutely no idea what he’s agreeing to. Is Charlie August’s partner? Child? Friend? He really needs some time to dig through his phone and figure out what the hell’s going on with his life.

The group chats a bit longer, but soon enough Connor drops out of the conversation, leaning back against the soft sofa cushions with his eyelids drooping. He feels soft and comfortable, if a bit cold, and he barely registers when someone takes the bowl from his hands. He’s brought out from his dozing by Hank, and with a start, he realizes his brothers have gone.

“Hm?” Connor grunts groggily.

“You’ll put your neck out if you fall asleep here. C’mon.” Hank helps lift Connor off the couch, supporting his weight with an arm around him, and it feels comforting and touching at the same time as a bit humiliating. Connor doesn’t protest, letting himself be led to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.

It’s a large bed, soft and perfectly made. There’s more personality here, even if it’s just a few things on the desk and a sweater draped over the back of a chair. Otherwise, it’s as meticulously cleaned as the rest of the place. He wonders if that’s the android’s doing.

There’s a towel and pajamas neatly folded atop the bed. “Think you can manage a shower first?” Hank asks. “I can help, if you want.”

“No, thanks,” Connor says, voice squeaking. He’s had far too much of being seen today, and besides which, he still doesn’t know this android’s purpose. “I think I can manage to stay upright.”

“Okay. Take it easy,” Hank says. He dips down to kiss Connor’s cheek. “I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

Connor nods, grabbing the pile and darting into the bathroom.

The smaller space and white noise of the fan help him feel closed off from the rest of the world. It’s private. Personal. Just him. That’s what he needs right now. Not some android he’s never seen before, not the strangeness of his brothers. It’s still this house he desn’t recognize, but it’s easier to think with just the single room in front of him.

All of this is a profoundly uncomfortable mystery. Did he really get himself an android that seems like an intimate companion model? He doesn’t think so. This one has too much depth, and its appearance doesn’t match his tastes. That should be the first thing he tries to figure out when he starts digging on his phone. The next should be figuring out whether he’s married or not, and the third should be taking a good look at his brothers’ social media profiles.

He strips out of his clothes and looks at himself in the mirror, deciding that the stubble has got to go. It makes him look as tired as he feels, and he grabs the razor off the sink, applying some shaving cream and shaving as steadily as he can. He manages to get a pretty clean shave, no doubt thanks to muscle memory, and feels a little more like himself.

Connor turns on the shower and wipes down his face before looking at himself again. There are things he likes about this body, from the flat chest to the body hair, the muscles and his figure, but he doesn’t know how he got here.

Logically, he had to have made the decisions that led to this result, but it feels like his body turned into this without his say. It feels right and normal, but looking at it now, it feels inadequate. There are thin scars on his chest from his top surgery. His chest hair is thin. Lower, his parts have obviously changed after being on T, but he doesn’t think he’s had any surgeries.

Maybe he’s happy with his body, but right now, it feels like he’s an ugly duckling stuck in between stages of his life. He wishes he were a cis man with a body that suited him, or that he’d gone ahead and gotten surgery to be as close as he could, because that would feel more right than this does. He knows part of his dysphoria comes from the feeling that he’s grown up too fast, that he was a young adult one minute and now he’s not. It’s just one more thing he doesn’t seem to have any control over.

There are other scars on his body from injuries he’s sustained over the years that he doesn’t recognize. When he peels the dressing off of the wound above his hip, he can see the red line under the stitching. It looks like it hurt--and it does hurt, even if it’s dulled by the medication--and he doesn’t want to focus on it. His arms and legs have plenty of scars, too, more than he’d thought this morning. There’s almost no flat or unmarked skin left, all of it covered in scar tissue.

He wishes he’d stopped years ago. Or, better yet, never started. Last he remembers, it had been… less than a decade. The details are still fuzzy. Now it’s been twenty years, like at some point he’d spiralled and never stopped. The distress he feels now makes him want to hurt himself again, and there’s a grim amusement at the thought of such a cycle, hurting himself because he doesn’t like his scars.

No wonder he’d settled for an android.

He bites at his nails instead, though the medication’s doing wonders to mute his emotions and anxious energy. He manages to shower just long enough to shampoo and rinse his hair, angling himself to keep the gunshot wound away from the water. Drying himself is a slow process, and so is dressing himself, but the pajamas are soft and smell freshly laundered. Short-sleeved, but given he’s still warm from the shower and about to crawl into bed, that shouldn’t be an issue. Hank shouldn’t see him.

Hank’s an android, but even so, Connor doesn’t want his judgment. Or pity.

He tosses his clothes to the floor and pulls the covers over himself, sighing as he relaxes into the cocoon of comfort. His phone is on the table beside him, and he promises himself he’ll explore it when he wakes up.

He drifts off to sleep watching heavy snowflakes fall outside the window, blanketing the world in a peaceful white.


	2. Chapter 2

When Connor wakes, he’s in pain again, a dull ache centered at the wound in his side. He groans, burrowing back under the sheets, soft and warm and ever so comfortable.

But it’s only for a moment. The feeling of something awful and wet on his forehead startles him and he yelps, pushing himself to a sitting position far too quickly, and he stares down at the perpetrator.

There’s a corgi on the bed.

“Oh, my god,” Connor says, rubbing his eyes. When he opens them again, the dog’s still there, looking at him with wide eyes. It’s wearing a green collar with a tag at the front: _Charlie._

Connor reaches out to pet the dog, who nudges Connor’s hand before settling back down beside him. “That was rude,” Connor says, rubbing the spit off his forehead with the back of his hand. “I guess you must be Charlie. Jesus.” He slides back down into a more comfortable position, careful not to disrupt the dog.

It would be a good idea to take more medication before the pain starts to kick in, but he doesn’t want to move. He takes a drink from a glass of water thoughtfully left beside the bed before picking up his phone. Outside, the sky is grey and it’s starting to get dark, and the time on his phone says 5:30 PM.

It’s strange, sitting here in a bed he’s unfamiliar with, his chest flat and arms a scarred mess. Almost like a dream. In his current state of sleepiness, everything feels fake and he’s neutral about that. This is just the state of things. His upset from earlier is suspended. In a way, he’s grateful he’s not back when he thought he was, because the literal weight off his chest brings him a sense of relief and belonging in his own body.

The dog helps. “Who’s a good boy?” Connor coos quietly while swiping open his messaging app. He’s always wanted a dog, and now August’s living the dream, apparently, with the cutest canine he could get.

There’s a lot of recent conversations and missed texts. His brothers are at the very top, and going backwards, he reads texts wishing him well, then before that, a flurry of messages asking if he’s alright. Nines’ messages are less profane but just as concerned. Once he’s past that, there’s little other than texts scheduling to meet or checking in on each other. It’s a disappointment.

Apparently he texts Hank sometimes, too. Every few messages between them includes a heart emoji. It’s disconcerting.

His email is no better, stuffed to the brim with ads and order receipts. Not his work email, then. Some of the emails are highly questionable, making him wonder what, exactly, he’s purchased in the past, or if the ads are actually spam.

The photo app is where he starts to get somewhere. There are photos of himself, his family, Hank, and countless other people he doesn’t recognize. At a glance, a lot of them are normal snapshots of daily life, and he flicks through them randomly to see what stands out to him. Restaurants, cafes, the park, and lots of dog pictures. There’s a recent picture of August and a guy with a scar across his face, both of them showing off their rings, and he can’t tell if they’re married or engaged. There are some with Nines, a young girl, and Charlie, all three of them at a park or in someone’s house.

There are a lot of pictures of himself, smiling politely or genuinely, in both work attire and lounge clothes. His chest tightens at that, but he tamps down the swell of emotion. He looks good; he looks like the man he’s always wanted to be, and far more put together than he really is.

Some pictures are more candid. It frightens him to see himself out in public--a hot day, from the looks of things--wearing short sleeves. A selfie by the river, Hank peering over his shoulder with tacky sunglasses. He can only imagine the looks and whispers he would get for his appearance, but more than that, it tells him his scars aren’t a secret from anyone.

He doesn’t know where he would find that confidence as he is now.

Flicking back to more recent photos, he stops on New Year’s Eve. He wore a sharp navy blue suit and took no fewer than three selfies with Hank beside him, one of which involved them kissing at a party. When he scrolls back again, he can see their wedding, all pale blues and greens in what looks like a flower garden. The three-tier cake was beautifully made, exquisite and fitting perfectly into the wedding aesthetic, if not for the topper: a cheap plastic figure of a blue-and-orange fish.

“What the fuck,” he whispers. “Is this a prank? Charlie, what the hell.”

The dog makes a quiet sound, but doesn’t otherwise move, apparently comfortable where he is.

Connor reaches out to pet the dog again, earning a wiggle for his efforts. “I feel kind of ripped off. Cake that expensive and I don’t even remember it.” He smiles, but it fades at the sight of his arm. Everything about his body is going to take some getting used to.

He glances towards the door and strains to listen for any sounds. The TV is on low. He can assume both Hank and August are here, but right now he would much rather not speak with an android or someone as intense as August. He almost calls Nines, but decides against it at the last moment. He doesn’t need more people crowding his house.

WIth a kiss to Charlie’s head, he slowly eases himself out of the bed and grabs a sweatshirt from the closet. The pain makes itself well known, but he grits his teeth, telling himself he’s not going far. Just to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then to the living room. He can make it that far.

And he does. He puts on a smile for the other two and does a good job of not recoiling when Hank stands to help him the rest of the way to the couch, adjacent to August on a second seat, who ends up with a lapful of dog moments later. He wishes Nines were here; he could use his cool understanding and comfort right now. He’s winded from the effort, but Hank returns with more medication and fresh water, which he takes gratefully.

“Thanks,” he says. He can manage this. If he tries to fit in, to be what everyone expects him to be, he can figure everything out. Maybe his memory will come back without having to bother anyone else.

Pretending. It’s what he’s always done. He should probably confide in at least one of his brothers, but how does he know they’re not humoring him in the first place? Do they think he’s lost it, being with an android? _Marrying_ one?

“You’ve rejoined the world of the living. Welcome back,” Hank says, taking a seat beside him. “Feel any better?”

“A little. The alarm clock is a little less sophisticated than I’m used to,” Connor says with a meaningful look at Charlie. “Not that I’m complaining.”

August laughs, and Connor can see some of the stress leave his frame. “You can’t have my dog, Connor,” he says. It makes Connor’s heart beat faster, hit with a spike of anxiety, but he pushes it away. He’s not being outed, he hasn’t been outed, this is really his name now.

“Maybe he can stay for the weekend,” Connor says.

August squints, but the expression is smoothed over in a flash, and Connor wonders if he saw it at all. “Hell, why not? You’re gonna be bored out of your mind anyway if you follow the doctor’s orders.”

“Which he definitely will do,” Hank insists, punching Connor lightly in the shoulder. “You guys are too goddamn fragile to risk fucking up a recovery.”

Connor hesitates, surprised at the language and familiarity, but he tries a response in kind, hoping he’s not misstepping. “Odd conviction from a guy who got shot and stood right back up.”

“I had someone else to look after,” Hank says, and then he winks. He fucking winks. “Speaking of, are you hungry? I got some groceries earlier. Lots of fresh produce, since you like rabbit food so much.”

“Some of us have to care about nutrition.” God, he hopes he didn’t become a health nut.

Hank scoffs. “Details.”

Connor rubs his fingers together and coos at the dog, but fails to get sufficient attention to entice him out from his brother’s lap. He leans back with a sigh. “I guess I am hungry. Do we have any fruit? I could go for an apple right now.” Something crisp and refreshing.

“Eh, I looked, but it’s a Saturday. They’re already sold out.”

He can’t help how his eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“You know how it goes,” Hank says, standing and heading for the kitchen. “Deliveries Thursday, all gone Friday. We’ve got oranges, though.”

“Apples,” Connor says flatly. He feels like there’s some joke he’s missing.

“It still feels fake, right? Can’t find a goddamn apple anywhere,” August says. Charlie has a blissful look as he scratches behind his ears. “Cyberlife’s still stringing everyone along with their promise of bee bots, by the way. Got nothing to show for it, but their stocks are bouncing back. Why couldn’t it be wasps that went extinct?”

“Uh,” Connor says, because he doesn’t have anything else to say.

This absolutely cannot be real.

He ends up with an orange in his hand and Hank’s arm across his shoulders, the android a warm presence beside him. It’s comfortable, something he thinks he’d like to sink into, and yet uncomfortable, jumbling up all his emotions. He settles for eating the orange without pushing Hank away, and hopes the android can’t detect his stress. Fiddling with the orange peel gives his hands something to do other than pick at himself, and he wonders if that’s some motivation to keep oranges around.

His eyes wander to the fish tank. There’s a chart above it to track what looks to be twice-daily feedings.

“I’ve been taking care of them, don’t worry,” Hank says. Connor wonders about the logistics of facial hair on androids. “I’ll get them fed again before I go to bed. Charlie, too. We’ve got some kibble in the cupboard from the other week.”

Charlie wiggles at the sound of his name, drawing a smile out of Connor. “Who’s a good boy?” he coos, and then the dog’s hopping up on Hank’s lap and nosing at the orange, which startles a peal of laughter from him. He’s never seen a dog this adorable before. “Oh, my god. No, no orange, this is mine.”

August groans, then clicks his tongue. “C’mon, girl,” he says, standing and patting his leg, and Charlie bolts after him, yapping at his heels. “Don’t get obnoxious because you want an early dinner.”

Oh.

That’s a bit awkward, Connor thinks, but he also thinks getting hit on the head is a valid excuse for forgetting the little details, and he’s fortunate August doesn’t take the opportunity to whine at him for misgendering his dog. Thankfully, it seems Hank thinks that way, too, but it could be he’s just programmed to be sympathetic. “You okay?” Hank asks quietly, his face close to Connor’s.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Think I overslept.” Connor gives a cheeky grin and it seems to do the trick, making Hank smile softly at him. “I’ll need that time off to get back on my feet.”

“Don’t sweat it. That’s exactly what we’re here for.” Hank kisses his lips, a brief yet lingering touch, but he pulls back when Connor stiffens. Some of Hank’s easy understanding shifts into something different, but not upset. “I’m here for you, sweetheart. Whatever you need.”

“Yeah,” Connor whispers, wondering how he’ll get through this.

When he’s in bed, early and blissfully alone, it hits him that this isn’t temporary. He’s never going to wake up from this and go back to whenever he was before in some post-college haze, newly graduated and looking for a job. Neither is he going to remember all of the intervening years and whatever disasters led to him being here, like this, with an android for a husband. He highly doubts he’ll have some sort of lightbulb moment where everything comes back at once, and while he fervently wishes this dream would go away and lead him back to reality, the more he thinks on it, the closer he comes to realizing exactly how impossible that is.

He’s not going to get to live those ten, fifteen years that he seems to have skipped. He’s just older, now, and it feels like he’s been shoved into someone else’s life.

He buries himself under the covers and sleeps dreamlessly.

* * *

Waking up in the morning is not a comfortable process.

The events of the previous day filter into Connor’s head in bits and pieces, fragments of words and images that mingle with others he can’t clearly recall, like a low and tender voice at his neck or the flash of deadly steel. His mind starts and stops, unable to find purchase in the waking haze until there’s a kiss to his forehead, something very real that dissipates the fog of the rest.

“Morning,” Hank says, and Connor swears his heart about stops, seeing this man shirtless in his bed. He’s well muscled and with a healthy amount of chest hair, lounging comfortably on his side as he smiles at Connor.

Android, Connor reminds himself, not man. Some sad attempt his former self made at finding comfort. He wonders if he’s still a virgin, then decides he is definitely not comfortable treating this android as some glorified sex toy. Sure, he might not feel anything, but… well, no, that’s even worse.

“Morning,” he says instead, giving in to the impulse to touch Hank’s chest. His voice is rougher in the morning, he notes. He lets his fingertips linger, feeling the beat of the mechanical heart underneath there. Curious.

He pulls his arm back just as quickly, hiding it under the covers, not wanting to see it and wanting to keep Hank from seeing it.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you awake,” Hank says. His eyes are shining. “You know, at first they said you might not come back, or that you might not be you. I’m glad they were wrong.”

Connor draws a shaky breath. “Yeah. Me too.” He pulls the covers tighter, but when Hank scoots closer and wraps an arm around him, he leans into the android’s warmth. It’s comfortable, and he hates to admit it, but he likes the intimacy, even if it’s with someone he doesn’t know. Someone who’s not even real.

It would break his brothers’ hearts to know he’s not the same person they knew last week. He’s clever, he knows that much about himself. He can pull himself together and try to fill his own shoes, put together the pieces of his life so nobody will notice he’s missing more than a few details. Just one piece at a time.

“What do you say we order in pancakes?”

“What?” Connor asks, entirely caught off-guard. He’s not hungry enough to think about breakfast, but he’s never thought of pancakes as delivery food. Nor of an android who won’t offer to cook. “Not homemade?”

“You,” Hank says, poking Connor’s nose, “are not going anywhere near that stove until you’ve got all your balance back.”

“Mm.” It’s a good point.

“And I haven’t tried making them since I ruined the last ones.”

“But do they have apples?”

“They’ve got strawberries,” Hank promises, and that does sound much nicer than cooked apples.

“Strawberry pancakes it is.” Connor can see the appeal of something like this: Waking up to the illusion of someone who loves him and wants to get him breakfast in bed, who has a gentle personality and feels so very real. Cyberlife really is onto something here.

Hank caresses Connor’s cheek, and that’s the point where it feels like too much, a touch he isn’t familiar with, that makes the pretending feel too real. He pulls back and Hank’s face falls, but he withdraws his hand. There’s a moment of silence between them before Hank speaks again. “Do you remember what happened? When you were shot?”

Connor tries to consider this, but his memories all feel like a murky void. “No,” he admits. “It’s like the day just cuts off. You were there?”

Hank nods. “Maybe it’s for the better. It’s a shitty enough memory for me, and I’m not the one who got knocked out.”

“I promise not to get whacked in the head again.”

“Good.” Hank kisses him on the lips, and it feels unusual again, but Connor’s too tired to be upset and a part of him loves the attention. “Hey, listen. If you feel like you want to hurt yourself or drink, will you talk to me? It’s hard to tell how you’re feeling when you try to put up a wall.”

Connor closes his eyes, turning his head into the pillow. Shit. The android’s scarily perceptive. “Yeah. Probably. You or my brothers.” It’s not a promise, but it’s the first response that comes to mind. Belatedly, he realizes the android thinks he might drink, which is not something he’s considered before as one of his vices.

One more thing about himself to investigate.

Hank squeezes his shoulder before climbing out of bed, and there’s a few bright barks when he’s out of the bedroom, Charlie having stayed the night as promised.

Connor grabs his phone and digs some more.

Now that he feels a bit more together, it’s easier to put together some things he didn’t before, and he remembers just enough to open up his work email on his phone. Turns out he’s a cop--a detective sergeant, at that. He only takes a brief look through his email before closing it again. The cases are wholly unfamiliar, but somehow he understands things he didn’t expect to, like acronyms or lab results.

Nines’ daughter is named Felicity. She’s seven and looks like his spitting image, but with long hair. There’s a spike of anguish that goes through Connor when he realizes how much she looks like he did at that age, but he firmly tells himself not to think that way. She’s her own person and doesn’t reflect anything about him.

Nines is a lawyer, as expected. August works at CyberLife in the treasury department, according to his professional social media. They’ve all got respectable jobs. They’re not college students anymore, and he warms with a sense of pride for how far they’ve all come.

A notification pops up as he receives a new text and he clicks on it.

It’s a picture of five of the fluffiest puppies he’s ever seen, sent by some guy named Chris. Scrolling back a few messages, Connor can see Chris’ sister’s dog had puppies and they’ve promised to give him and Hank first pick of the litter.

Another text comes seconds later, letting him know the two of them can pick one out next weekend and wishing him a quick recovery.

His breath catches in his throat. “Oh, my god,” he says for what feels like the twentieth time in as many hours. “Oh, shit. What the fuck.”

He’s only a little startled when Hank cracks the door open with a concerned look on his face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, face darkening at whatever he sees on Connor’s face. He steps closer, glancing at the phone. “What is it?”

Connor shoves the phone at Hank and blinks, his eyes uncomfortably watery. “They’re so soft,” he whispers, voice thick. “So small. Oh, god. I want to hug them. They’re so pure.”

Hank visibly relaxes. “Yeah,” he says. “They’re perfect. I can’t wait to meet them.”

“I wish we could adopt them all.”

Hank snorts. “You remember Liz’s house? Every inch was covered in fur. One will be plenty.” His smile softens. “But, yeah. Me too. I can’t fucking wait.” He leans down and pulls Connor into a hug, but it’s brief, since he notices Connor’s hesitation.

Connor awkwardly pulls the flat sheet up to his chest, hiding his arms beneath it. “Yeah. I’m excited,” he says, nerves starting to show.

Hank looks like he’s about to say something, but it’s cut short by the ringing of the doorbell and Charlie’s subsequent yapping. “Sounds like pancakes,” he says instead, giving a halfhearted smile. Connor nods, and once Hank is out the door, he steps out of bed and grabs a sweatshirt, not bothering to get dressed.

The kitchen smells divine and Hank doesn’t waste any time moving the breakfast from takeout containers to proper plates. It looks absolutely mouthwatering, and when Connor sits down, it takes every ounce of self-control not to dig in like a starving man.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Hank says, seated across from him.

Connor looks up in surprise, glancing at the calendar on the fridge for confirmation. There’s a manta ray for this month’s picture. “It’s February sixteenth.”

“Yeah, well. Didn’t want to celebrate without you, sweetheart.” Hank smiles warmly, and Connor returns the gesture, feeling a little more relaxed.

He’s got this. It’s all going to be okay.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Connor’s supposed ban from screens, he still ends up on the couch on Monday afternoon, lying across it and half-dozing while the TV drones on. He’s not really watching it, moreso listening to the drama playing in the background as he stares at the ceiling, eyes tracing patterns across the texture. The medication he’s on is strong, making his mind fuzzy and his body feel like it’s floating amongst clouds. It dulls his compulsions and quiets his racing mind; his hands are still and he’s stopped fiddling with the loose thread of the sofa cushion.

Hank monitors his intake of medication. It’s not like Connor is fully out of it--he’s capable of sound decisions and pretty much everything except driving--but he lets himself lounge while he has the capability to not feel restless, and he lets Hank manage part of his life. He’ll be off the narcotics in two days, which is less than he was prescribed, but he can reevaluate whether he needs them or not based on the pain he has after switching to something less strong. He doesn’t think he’ll take too many just to chase a high, but it won’t hurt for Hank to keep an eye on that. The android may know him better than he knows himself at this point.

Hank hasn’t yet pried into Connor’s strangeness, and he’s grateful for that. Hank’s initial closeness--kissing, touching his face, trying to hold hands--has turned into a polite distance. There haven’t been any more kisses since Sunday morning. Brief touches, none that linger. A hesitation before an “I love you,” which is infuriating to hear, knowing that it’s programmed and not genuine, but Connor longs to hear it anyway, even if from a machine.

Most people wouldn’t notice the changes, but Connor’s observant. Always has been. Were Hank human, he would say the android seemed confused beneath his layers of confidence and easygoing attitude. A little sad.

The drama gives way to the news. It isn’t long before Connor’s eyes are drawn to the screen, and a headline about _Android Revolution_ snags his attention.

“TV, volume up,” he says. He’s still not comfortable with a TV that can listen to anything he says, but given that he has an android in his house--something that can record everything he says no matter what room he’s in--he thinks he’s given up on privacy by now. Most people probably have.

Connor listens, and he realizes this whole world has been tipped on its head.

Bees are extinct. Cars are automated. And now, androids are recognized as living, sentient beings capable of emotions ever since a revolution that’s now three years past.

He pays close attention as an android speaks about recent protests regarding discrimination in the workplace and housing. Details about the revolution slip through, with mentions of revolutionary leaders and their current work, plus a memorial for the Jericho, whatever that is. There is a brief mention of legal progress already made, including android marriage and adoption.

Hank steps over from where he’s been chopping far too many vegetables for some soup. He’s wearing a warm blue sweater that Connor would very much like to wear himself. “Josh is a natural at this,” Hank says, crossing his arms over the back of the couch. “Fuckin’ optimism in spades. Every single one of that reporter’s questions makes me want to tell her to fuck off.”

“Would you?” Connor asks. He’s still processing the bit about androids being people. “If you were there?”

“Depends exactly how much I was pushed. You know I don’t have a lot of patience, or tolerance for bullshit.”

“It’s part of why I love you,” Connor says. The words are clumsy, spilling out without the smoothness he’d tried for, but the brilliant, genuine smile he gets from Hank tells him he got something right.

“C’mon, you’re gonna make me blush,” Hank says. He leans over to squeeze Connor’s hand in his, then he stands back up, glancing at the kitchen. “Let me get this soup going and then we can watch a movie or something. With the brightness turned down,” he adds. “Your head still hurt?”

“I’m good,” he lies. He can see how easily Hank sees through him, though, and the android just shakes his head before returning to the kitchen.

Connor’s head throbs, and his heart aches all of a sudden, confusion and stress washing over him in waves. He doesn’t have a creepy android husband, according to the news. Just a husband, an actual person. A someone, not a something. A being who feels and thinks and actually, genuinely loves him.

If he believes the news, that is. He thinks he should.

He doesn’t know if that makes things better or worse. With an unfeeling android, he could mold his life into something more familiar. Get rid of the android and move along on his own without needing to lean on the support of a machine like someone pathetic living out a fantasy.

With Hank being a real person… it’s a lot to take in. It means he’s making an actual life with someone. This is someone who cares about him and about whom he cares deeply in turn. An entire relationship that he can’t remember the first thing about. Years of friendship and love, gone. Completely missing from his head.

It puts his emotions into perspective, though. The warm feelings he has for Hank don’t feel like they can be called love, but they’re more than a person would feel for a machine. He thinks he wants to make an attempt at normalcy for Hank, trying to give back some of the affection that he receives, because this news means that Hank really cares. They knew each other, loved each other, and got married.

God. He doesn’t know the first thing about Hank except that they work in the same place.

Connor blinks back tears, but can’t help a sniffle. He hears Hank pause in his work, but nothing more. It’s a lot to take in and he’s not sure he won’t have a breakdown right here, except the drugs are dulling his emotions and making it possible to hold his composure. He feels a pull to hurt himself or drink--and that’s a strange-yet-familiar feeling, wanting to drink--but he lacks the motivation to move for either of those things.

How can he put himself back together with a stranger living right beside him?

“TV, connect to bluetooth,” he says, reaching for the tablet on the coffee table with shaky hands. He needs to get out of his head. It’s too much; he can’t keep thinking about everything he’s missing or how daunting it all feels. Maybe he should trust Hank, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

He’ll have to sleep on it. Maybe he’ll wake up and realize he hasn’t forgotten everything about Hank. Maybe Hank will be beside him when he wakes up, unlike this morning, and it will feel normal again.

Connor sighs. The whole house remains unfamiliar to him, from the paint down to the fish. There’s nothing he recognizes, not a single thing that he remembers having owned before, and he hates to admit how much it unsettles him. How terrifying it is.

At least movies don’t change, he thinks, putting on one he’s seen countless times.

* * *

The next day sees Hank back to work and Connor restless as hell.

“I just want to _do_ something,” he says, kicking at the snow in his backyard. It’s snowing again, soft and fluffy, and while the cold makes his head hurt and movement makes his wound hurt, at least he’s out of the house.

Nines is even less enthused about the weather, bundled up with his nose bright pink. “I will not be responsible for landing you right back in the hospital.”

“Walking around a store won’t kill me.”

“No. I can’t carry you when you get tired.”

“We could take a walk down the block,” Connor says, turning to his brother. His hands itch to pick at each other, but he can’t with gloves on. He would suggest a nearby store or café, but he’s unfortunately neglected to check a map of the area. “We wouldn’t go far and the sidewalks are clear.”

“It’s cold.”

“But I’m bored.”

“Connor,” Nines says, exasperated. “Please. You need to rest, okay? I know you feel like you can do more than your limits are right now, but you shouldn’t push yourself.”

Connor steps closer, brows furrowing. “You’re worried.”

“Of course I am! You almost died.” Nines looks at him with such raw emotion it takes Connor’s breath away. “You got hurt so badly they didn’t think you’d make it. It might just feel like--like a headache and a really bad bruise, but it’s more than that. I don’t want you to screw up your recovery, okay? No matter how boring it is. Not after you got shot.”

Connor reaches out and grasps his arm. “Okay,” he says quietly, nodding to himself. “That’s fine. It’s only a couple weeks. I’ll try to make this easier on you, too.”

Nines hugs him gently, then smiles at him, eyes watering. “I know it’s frustrating,” he says, “but thanks. You know I worry. I haven’t felt like this since, well, university. It’s scary.”

“Thank God we graduated and got that over with,” Connor says. He doesn’t fully remember university, but with that many young adults in one place, emotions and actions could go overboard. “I’ll be okay. Promise.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, then Nines nods, gesturing to the house and leading the way back in. “You remember how proud mom was at our graduation?”

Connor smiles. “Yeah. The three of us, all grown up and making our way in the world. Didn’t she cry during the ceremony?”

Nines is quiet as the two of them leave their shoes at the door and slowly start on the rest of their winter clothing. “Connor,” he says quietly, once his scarf is hung up. Ice climbs up Connor’s spine at the tone of his voice.

“Yeah?” One hand undoes his coat while the other is at his mouth so he can bite at a nail.

“Do you really remember that?”

“Yeah.” He laughs nervously. “Why wouldn’t I? All that hard work finally over with and a degree with my name on it.”

“Your degree in what?”

Connor realizes he doesn’t remember what he was studying. He knows some of the classes he took, but it all blurs together. “Biology,” he says, because he’s pretty sure that’s what he would have studied.

It doesn’t make Nines look any less worried.

He shakes off his coat, hanging it by the door and shivering. “What should we get for lunch?”

“Hey.” Nines takes his arm and steers him towards the couch instead. “Are you alright? Emotionally?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Connor insists. He doesn’t know where he’s misstepped. “What’s wrong?”

The two of them sit down and Nines gives him a look that’s almost pitying.

“I haven’t hurt myself,” Connor says. It’s true. “I’m getting along okay.”

“Mom never came to our graduation.”

Oh.

Shit.

Nines fed him that line, he realizes. He tries to think back to whatever he said before that, but nothing stands out as odd or even specific enough to draw any attention. “I just miss her, I guess,” Connor says. At this point, his bets are either that he’s not in contact with his parents anymore or that one or both are gone. They would be fairly young for the latter, but he can’t rule it out. “I wanted her to be proud of me.”

Nines wraps his arm around Connor. “What do you remember about college?”

“Plenty. I remember… sneaking out to drink,” Connor says. “I remember how tiny the dorms were. My roommate Tori who did karaoke every Thursday. The drag shows right off campus that I was too scared to go to, at first.” He doesn’t know how much of that his brothers would know, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s true. “It’s been a while, but I haven’t forgotten everything.”

“What about your thesis?”

“I don’t think about it.” Connor frowns. “I cared at the time, but it’s not really important anymore.”

“What’s going on, Connor?” Nines asks. His face is filled with concern. It’s touching, but Connor hates that he’s worrying his brother.

“Nothing’s going on. What’s got you asking so many questions?”

Nines hesitates. “I think you’re misremembering,” he says gently. “You… dropped out of college. You didn’t write a thesis or graduate. You never even attended August and my graduation ceremony.”

That would explain the confusion. Connor sighs, frustrated at himself and at yet another unexpected part of his past. “Right,” he says. He takes an educated guess. “I changed course. Figured myself out and decided to become a cop instead. University just wasn’t for me.”

“Yes, that’s exactly why you quit,” Nines says dryly. “Look, are you lying to make yourself more comfortable with everything, or are there gaps in your memory? You didn’t just quit university.”

“Then which is it?” Connor snaps. “If I didn’t graduate and I didn’t quit, what the fuck do you think I did?”

“You tried to kill yourself!”

That puts Connor back on his heels, metaphorically speaking. He blinks, processing. “Oh.”

It’s not something he thinks he would do. Or would have wanted to do. He knows his arms tell a different story, but those scars don’t mean he’s suicidal.

“You left a note and you tried to kill yourself,” Nines says. His lip wobbles, and there’s a depth of pain to his bright blue eyes. “You didn’t--didn’t want to be gay or trans, or deal with the rejection, and your anxiety was--you know. I had two missed calls and you wouldn’t pick up, so I stopped by your apartment.” He takes a deep breath. “Our parents kicked you out, after, so you dropped out to get a full-time job. August funnelled you whatever money he could sweet talk out of them. I checked in on you whenever I could.”

Connor doesn’t know what to say. It sounds like a shitty past, one he doesn’t remember and might not even want to. He can recall some vague flickers of memory--flashes of numbers, textbooks, cars--but clarity escapes him. “Right.”

“Do you remember any of that?”

There’s part of him that wants to remain stubborn, to say that his memory is intact but for a few small things, but at this point, that won’t help anyone, least of all himself.

So he tells the truth.

Connor licks his lips, looking forward, away from Nines, while his hands worry at his nails. “No,” he says. “I don’t remember at all. I don’t remember anything, actually. Not since… I thought since sometime after graduating, but not even that, apparently.”

Nines leans towards him. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“The past fifteen years, maybe. I’ve got nothing.” Connor shrugs. “One minute I’m in college, or out of college, something like that, and the next I’m here. In the hospital. Everything about me is different. I have a house, I’m married, androids are people. You have a kid. Right?”

Nines nods. “Yes. My daughter.”

“Right. I don’t remember shit, Nines. Not a single fucking thing. Not coming out, becoming a cop, getting a fish tank. I don’t know the first thing about Hank. And I don’t know what the hell to do about that.”

“These past couple days, you’ve been pretending?”

“Yeah.” Connor swallows. “I wanted to figure things out on my own.”

“God,” Nines says. “This is a lot. More so for you, I guess. But, hey. We’re here for you, okay? You don’t need to do this alone. We can help you figure out where to go from here.”

Connor nods. He feels dizzy. “Don’t tell anyone else, okay? I need to do that myself. When I’m ready.”

“You’re meeting a therapist tomorrow, right? Do you want me to come?”

“No. I think it’ll be easier for me to tell someone I don’t know.” Connor takes a shaky breath. “I think I need to lie down.”

“Let’s get you to bed, then.” Nines helps him stand, then walks beside him to the bedroom. He can’t conceal his worry, though he’s making an effort to comfort Connor, and he appreciates that. “I promise we’ll figure this out.”

“Okay,” Connor says. He lies on top of the sheets, closing his eyes to find blissful darkness. “Thanks.”

“Ask your therapist how we should go about filling the gaps, or whatever we should be doing about this.” Nines grabs a soft blanket from elsewhere in the room and lays it on top of him. “I’m going to order sandwiches. I’ll let you know when they’re here.”

“Okay.”

Then he’s left in the quiet of the room, feeling like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.

* * *

Nines leaves early that afternoon to get home by the time his daughter gets off the bus, leaving Connor with a couple of hours to himself. He reviews his email again in the hope that it sparks something--it does not--and starts digging around the house for anything that might reveal more.

There isn’t a diary in his dresser, nor any logs on his laptop or phone that would tell him about himself. His social media is bright and sparse, all of it superficial--a party here, a beautiful day at the park there. The clothes in his wardrobe are fairly plain, though it’s unusual to see not a single dress or skirt in there. Not that he liked wearing them, but it’s another thing that’s changed in his life. Hank’s clothes fill the other half of the closet, brighter and more varied than his own, and he wonders how an android can have more interesting taste than him.

Right. Androids are people, ones with entire personalities. God, he’d hope his husband is more interesting than him.

He opens a box in the closet, curious to see if anything important is tucked away, and his mind blanks.

Maybe too interesting, he thinks, shutting the box as his face flushes crimson. There are some questions he doesn’t need an answer to right now. Or ever. At least it explains some of the ads in his inbox.

...scratch that thought. He’s coming back to this box when his head’s back on straight.

When Hank gets home, it’s the same as it has been the past couple of days. The two of them are still feeling out their comfort levels with touch and affection, and Connor feels way out of his depth. He’s made up his mind to try making things as normal for Hank as he can. It’s not difficult to adapt his thinking to see Hank as a person, and it makes sense with Hank’s whole personality. He just hopes he doesn’t fuck it up.

Hank heats him up some soup, and there’s a surprise delivery of two pieces of cake from a local bakery. _‘From Felicity,’_ the note in the box reads. Connor’s heart warms at the thought of this little girl who loves him and can’t wait to see him again. This weekend, Nines had promised, after they pick up the puppy. Connor’s nervous and excited all at once.

He digs into his cake and cuddles with Hank on the couch, feeling like they slot together well. It feels like he’s living another life, but he feels cared for and loved. He doesn’t want to let this go, even if it’s strange.

He invites Hank to sleep with him tonight and successfully fights off a blush at his own phrasing. Hank takes him up on the offer with a grin and a joke, and they end up curled up in bed together. Hank doesn’t try to touch him intimately and Connor tries not to shy away from his gaze once he’s in pajamas, resisting the urge to hide his arms. It’s difficult even to look at himself in the mirror--or to see his own arms at all--but he no longer feels like he’s going to freak out. The vulnerability he feels like this is uncomfortable, but bearable knowing that Hank’s seen him like this countless times before.

There’s a breakdown building up and he knows that, but it’s not here yet. It’s okay, he tells himself. His stress will rise and he’ll cry, and maybe that will be it, if he can keep himself from doing anything worse. He’s not in any sort of critical state. Things will be fine.

He curls up in Hank’s arms and listens to his mechanical heartbeat until it lulls him to sleep.

He sleeps well, waking briefly only when Hank gets up for work, and then is rudely awakened later by the curtains in his room being yanked open.

Connor blinks, groans, and pulls the covers over his eyes. “No.”

“Your sleep schedule is gonna get fucked up,” August says. Moments later there’s a dip on the bed and a wet nose sniffling at Connor’s head. “You’ve got therapy in an hour. I’ve put some soup on the stove so you can eat before you head out.”

“More soup.” Connor sighs.

“It’s better than that rabbit food you always eat. Unless Hank forgot the salt again?”

“He is a perfectly competent cook.”

“He’s a shitty cook and you know it.” August pats Charlie’s head before leaving Connor to get ready, and the dog follows, nails clacking on the hallway floor.

Connor pulls on some warm and cozy clothes, grabbing one of Hank’s sweaters and luxuriating in its soft and cozy embrace. He stops at the fish tank to feed them, but only gives them a pinch of food; there’s already a mark for this morning’s feeding from Hank. It pulls a smile to his face when they come up for food, each of them eager for a bite, and he only moves once August nudges him away from the tank for his own lunch.

He spends the drive over going back and forth in his head about whether or not to tell his brother about his memory loss while fervently picking at his nails and lips, but by the time he’s decided and changed his decision twice, they’re in the parking lot and his chance is gone.

Therapy does not go smoothly. After twenty minutes of filling out forms, Connor ends up in a room with yet another man he’s never met before, in a too-soft leather seat that he wants to sink into and never emerge from. He’s asked basic questions and answers them calmly, giving him the answers he would give anyone else. No, he’s not depressed. No, he’s never hurt himself. The only thing he admits to is anxiety, and that’s because it’s hard to deny that one when he can’t even keep himself from biting at his cuticles.

The therapist asks how the revolution’s affected him and his job, and Connor honestly replies that he now has android coworkers, to which the therapist responds that it’s a damn shame they’re getting paid to do the job a human used to have. It takes an awful lot of resolve for Connor not to spit in his face--this man’s had years to learn to respect androids but can’t muster even an ounce of empathy--but he manages to grit his teeth and ask what he can do about slight memory loss from a concussion, only to be told he can set up a future appointment and they can explore their options together.

He thanks the man, leaves, and storms out of the place without setting up a second appointment.

“Got my paper signed,” Connor says, tight-lipped, once they’re back in the car. “All good. No more therapy.”

August levels him with a look. “The way you say that makes me not want to believe you.”

“Yeah, well. After meeting that guy? I’m good.” Connor rests his elbow against the window and leans back in the passenger seat. He’s never seen a therapist before, but he’s far from impressed. “I don’t even remember getting shot, so it’s not like I’ll get nightmares or anything.”

“That kind of sounds worse.”

“I was knocked out before I got shot.”

“Do you remember getting knocked out?”

“No.”

August sighs. He pulls them up to a local coffee drive-through, or at least Connor thinks it is, since he doesn’t recognize the brand, though he knows he likes it.

Connor barely has half a minute to take in the information on the sign before August looks his way, waiting for his order. “Orange white mocha,” he blurts out. He gets a raised eyebrow at that, but his brother orders it for him, and before long they’ve got a respectable latte and a saccharine monstrosity.

“Are you sure you don’t need more therapy?” August asks when they pull into the driveway at Connor’s place. He can hear Charlie’s yipping through the door. “I know one visit is all you need for work, but you and I both know that’s probably bullshit. When was the last time you even had a regular therapist?”

“Good question.” Connor makes his way in first, doing his best not to trip over Charlie. “I might. I haven’t decided yet. But not that asshole.”

“What was his problem?”

“Androids. Big surprise.”

“Oh,” August says. “Yeah. A whole revolution and people still don’t get it. We’ve got androids all around us living their own lives, leaders on TV telling their stories and fighting for rights, and some people try to drown it all out. I mean, fuck, is it that hard to show some goddamn empathy?”

“Maybe they should install some mirrors in that office,” Connor says.

August cackles. “I don’t think ‘asshole’ is in the DSM.”

“That’s a shame.” He sits at the kitchen table and sips at his coffee, finding the flavor sweeter than he likes but altogether not bad. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to meet Markus and those guys? Like, the revolutionary leaders? They’re so… driven.” What little he knows comes from the TV, but it seems androids are a hot topic. A novelty of sorts, part of a scandal, with tensions never quite fading. It must rake in the views for the media. “That’s one hell of a spotlight to be in.”

August’s smile fades. “I mean… do you?”

Connor nods. “They were and still are at the center of everything. The kind of guy who can lead thousands of androids in the middle of a city bent on kicking you down… That’s really something. All of the revolutionary leaders, I mean.”

“Yeah. They’re pretty great.” August is giving him an odd look, so Connor wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, scrubbing off a bit of whipped cream.

“And, you know, I can’t imagine all the violence they saw when shit was going down, and they still came out stronger for it. That takes a strong spirit. Just… I don’t know, they’re inspirational. I heard North talking on the news yesterday and I just felt so much.” It doesn’t sound that great in those words, but to be fair, he hasn’t exactly sorted through his thoughts yet.

August pinches his nose. “You remember the part of the violence you did see, right?”

“Of course,” Connor says quietly. Mentally, he kicks himself for the reflexive lie. “But I wasn’t in the thick of it.”

“And the androids leading other androids.”

“Yeah.” He nods, stomach sinking.

“And you’ve never met any of them.”

“Okay, so, I, uh. There’s a perfectly good explanation,” Connor stammers out, scrambling for words.

“So what the hell do you call what Hank did?”

“What do I what?” Connor asks. “What Hank did?”

“Yeah.” August tilts his head, looking almost like he’s judging Connor. “What Hank did. Kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”

He has absolutely no idea what he’s stepped in this time. “I guess. Yeah.”

“You guess.” August scoffs, then frowns. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten meeting Markus and the rest of them.”

“We’ve met?”

“Yeah, you’ve met, you fucking dolt.”

“Oh.” Connor clears his throat. “I did forget.”

“Christ. Look, hey, do you think this is your concussion messing with you?” August asks, his gaze softening. “We can find another shrink for you.”

Connor takes a deep breath and tries to keep his voice steady. “I don’t remember anything. These past few years are just gone. Poof. Nothing left.”

“What?” His brother looks like he doesn’t quite believe him. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I don’t know Hank,” he says, the words spilling out in a nervous rush. “I don’t look the same in the mirror. I don’t know when I got this house or why it’s so bare, and I’ve never met Felicity, or the guy you’re with, and I don’t even know the names of my fish--”

“Whoa, hey, breathe.” August’s standing now, one hand on Connor’s shoulder. Connor closes his eyes and leans into it, trying to ground himself. “You’re okay, you’re alright.”

“I don’t feel alright.” Connor shakes his head. “I don’t remember anything since college. Not since… Nines told me why I dropped out, but I just don’t remember, okay? Between then and now, it’s gone. All of it. My transition, my scars, it’s all new. I have a career I don’t remember starting. It’s like my life is gone and I’ve got a whole new one. I’m terrified.”

“It’s fine, you’re okay,” August says. He pulls a seat close and sits down, rubbing Connor’s back. “You’re not alone. I’m here for you, and so are Aiden and Hank. We can help you figure things out, okay? I don’t know how, but we can figure that out. With Aiden’s help, because he’s the one with his head screwed on right.” Connor winces at that, but August gives him an uneasy smile. “I mean that in reference to me, not you, sorry. You know, because I… Shit. How much _do_ you remember?”

Connor leans back, gently pushing away his brother’s arm. “Nothing that means anything. I know some things, but I don’t remember events. If I watch a crime show, I know how that compares to when I evaluate a scene, but I don’t remember any of the experience behind that. I care about Hank, but all I remember from before are flashes of memory, like the way he smiled once. Sometimes I think about phrases that I might have heard before.” He looks sideways at August, and concern sits inside him at whyever he thinks there’s something wrong with himself. “What did you think I might remember?”

“Don’t worry about it.” The forced smile is uncomfortable to look at. “It doesn’t matter. The point is… well, I don’t know. What do you want to happen?”

“I want to go back.” Connor bites his lip. “I mean, I guess not, not that that’s possible. But I want to stop feeling so out of place. Having my memory back sounds nice, but how easy would that be?”

“Do you think it would help if you had, I don’t know, a timeline of your life? I mean, it would suck to have someone tell you what happened to you when you don’t remember shit, but maybe it’s worth it.”

Connor clicks his tongue and holds his hand out, considering it a success when Charlie darts over to shove her wet nose into his hand. “I might get something out of it. Aiden said something similar,” he says. “Speaking of, does he still go by Nines?”

“He’ll never shake that nickname,” August says. His smile eases into something more natural. “You’re good, Con. I’ll get together with him and see what we can come up with. Does Hank know?”

“Not yet.” Connor taps his lap in an invitation for Charlie to hop up, but she cocks her head at him instead, tongue hanging out. “I’m working on it.”

August nudges him. “She wants treats. She’s gonna walk off all disappointed because you don’t keep any here.”

“That’s rude of me.”

He laughs. “Yeah, it is.”

Connor sighs and withdraws his hand, turning back to August. “What was it you thought I knew?” he asks. It feels like a piece he wants to fill in now, while they’re having this serious talk. “Like your head’s not right?”

August rubs the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, not meeting Connor’s eyes.

“You know all of this about me.” Connor gestures to his head, then to one of his arms. They’re both still covered, but he knows his family saw him on that hospital bed and he knows, at that point, it can’t have been a surprise. “Please. If it’s not a secret, I want to know about you. I don’t know how much I even know you or Nines anymore.”

“Okay.” August nods slowly. “That’s fair. So, I developed schizophrenia in college, and an eating disorder after. It took me a while to figure that shit out. I’m doing okay right now. It’s just one of those things that never goes away, and you know how that goes. We’re different. Do you still remember your mental illnesses? Is anything weird or doesn’t make sense?”

“I had myself figured out early on. Picking, depression, anxiety. Cutting.” Connor glances back at the cupboards where he knows he keeps a few bottles of drinks. “Am I an alcoholic?”

“I’ve never known you to over-indulge unless you felt like shit. It’s not good, but I don’t think you’re an alcoholic. You smoke, sometimes. Cigs. They seem less like addictions than you hurting yourself, though. I think you do that when you don’t even feel that bad.”

Connor reaches down to run his fingers across Charlie’s back when she walks under his chair. “That tracks. Thanks for telling me.”

“Does it all make sense? I can understand if it doesn’t exactly fit into what you’re missing,” August says.

“Yeah, it does. I don’t think there’s anything else wrong. I’m not missing any time since after I woke up, and I’m only confused because I’m missing so much.” He picks at the sleeve on his drink. “I’m going to tell Hank, soon. And I’ll have to talk to the captain. I think I might still understand how to do my job, but I will need a refresher at the very least. Something to bring my skills to the front of my mind.”

August grins. “There’s the Connor I know.”

“I hope I’m always the Connor you know.”

“You’re good at making plans. Decisive. Confident. Stubborn. It’s a good side to see.” August smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges. It makes him look older than Connor’s used to, but it looks right on him. “You’re not out of your depth. You’ve got this.”

Connor relaxes and finds himself nodding, a tender feeling taking hold in his heart. “I think you might be right,” he says. “Can you tell me what Hank did, during the revolution?”

“Freed a bunch of androids from a warehouse. Thousands,” August says. “You should look up the clips. He’s a lot more easygoing now, but he was so determined then.”

Connor thinks of the man who makes him soup and whispers that he loves him, the man who wears tacky pineapple shirts and talks to the fish in their living room. “I had no idea.”

There’s a sadness in August’s eyes, and Connor knows he doesn’t realize yet how deeply this amnesia impacts Connor’s life. “You should ask him about it. You were involved, too. The two of you worked together, and the story’s a lot more complex than that.”

Connor moves the cup a couple of inches across the table, pushing it slowly from one hand to the other. “Do you think he’ll still love me, even if I can’t remember him?”

“He would die for you, Connor. He loves you more than words can express.” August smiles with watery eyes. “And he’s a logical man. It will just be one more step in the life you two share with each other. As long as you want to make things work, so will he.”

He nods. “I want that. I… yeah. Thank you.” Connor downs the rest of his coffee, doing his best not to let his emotions overwhelm him.

He can make things work.


	4. Chapter 4

Connor goes to bed with Hank in his arms, feeling like he’s pretending to be someone he isn’t. They kiss, and he’s comfortable with that so long as Hank doesn’t touch the skin of his arms. It isn’t awkward until Hank offers to blow him, which he quickly declines, but the heat in his face soon fades as the two cuddle in bed. The blue of Hank’s LED is as soothing as the embrace of the man himself.

The light calms him in a way that shouldn’t be possible, a learned reaction from the years he’s lost. It reminds him how real those missing memories are--were--and that he’s built a life for himself that isn’t half-bad. Especially not with Hank here, warm and safe, holding him close and smelling of home.

Despite Connor’s insistence that he can’t remember and therefore won’t have nightmares, he still wakes up in the middle of the night, bolting upright in a sweat and breathing heavily. The movement pulls at his injury and his head hurts, which only pulls him deeper into distress, compounding the confusion. He doesn’t recognize where he is, and he feels so lethargic but he needs to move. He stumbles out of bed, off-balance and disoriented.

There’s a desperate pull to find something to stop this. He knows where the liquor should be and where he would find a pack of cigarettes, if he has any. There should be a blade in his sock drawer, which is closer than either of those options. He fumbles with the dresser until he finds the right drawer handle, and there’s a sick feeling in his stomach as the quiet blue light in the room turns red, the color bouncing softly off of the furniture.

A lamp turns on, dimly illuminating the room. Connor can see the small plastic container nestled among his socks. He grabs it and thumbs at the latch, but then there’s a hand on his own and another wrapping around his waist.

“Easy, Connor,” Hank says. His hold isn’t tight, but it is firm. “You’re safe right now. You’re at home. It’s just the two of us here. You’re okay.”

“Don’t say that,” Connor snaps. His voice is shaky. “I’m not okay and you know it.”

“You’re not in any danger. I’ve got you, Connor. I love you,” Hank says quietly into his ear. “You’re safe.”

It’s a nice sentiment, but Connor feels like he’s going to break. His unsteady legs don’t help with that and he finds himself sinking to the ground, Hank slowly lowering him and offering support so he doesn’t fall. Connor grips the small box tightly, holding it to his chest, knuckles white. He _needs_ to do something to stop feeling like this.

Once they’re both on the ground, Hank pulls him into a hug, Connor’s back to Hank’s chest.

“I can take care of myself. I don’t need you watching over me,” Connor murmurs. The blade clatters inside the box as his hand shakes.

“I know,” Hank replies, “but I think you could use a friend right now. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“And if I told you to let go?”

“Then I would.”

The words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to demand that Hank let him do this, but he doesn’t speak them, instead focusing on the shape of the box in his hand and the quiet warmth behind him. His energy dissipates with every tremor until he slumps back against Hank, completely drained.

He doesn’t know how long the two of them sit there in the dim light, but he knows his wound is sore, his leg is starting to cramp, and he needs to pee. “What time is it?” Connor asks quietly.

“Four o’clock.”

“Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s fine.” Hank squeezes him. “I don’t need much sleep, anyway. Perks of being an android.”

“Then why sleep with me every night?” Guilt creeps in. If Hank sleeps in his bed for Connor’s sake, that’s a lot of time taken out of Hank’s life, and now he’s gone and made it harder by waking up in the middle of the night with his problems. Not to mention all of Connor’s other baggage and the difference between their bodies, Connor’s with all its flaws and Hank’s perfect and smooth.

Trauma, he thinks. Not problems, but trauma. It doesn’t feel like he should call it that, but whatever he’s gone through--gunshot, memory loss, concussion--anyone else would consider traumatic. And whatever’s causing this sort of terror in his head, it’s new. This sort of thing doesn’t just come out of nowhere.

“Hey. Stop thinking so much.” Hank kisses his cheek. “I like to rest. Slow down my mind for a bit and get comfortable. Share a space with my favorite person.”

“Oh.” Connor takes one of Hank’s hands in his, the other turning over the box. He knew exactly where to find it, but he didn’t know until then where it was. Another of those strange things that he knew when he thought about it but not before. The urge has dulled along with his panic, but it’s still there. He looks at the box, considering, and the temptation is strong.

Connor tosses the box aside. It clatters somewhere across the room. He leans forward and buries his head in his arms, hot tears welling up in his eyes. Hank scoots forward until they’re beside each other, wrapping one arm around Connor. His presence is like a weighted blanket, protective and caring and tender, and Connor lets himself cry, the weight of the past few days spilling out in his tears.

His sobs fade to hiccups and the tracks on his cheeks cool. He’s cold, he realizes, here on the cool, carpeted floor, and both his legs ache from the odd position he’s decided to sit in. The pain from his injury is starting to flare up, making his side feel like it’s got one great big bruise.

“Are you hungry?” Hank asks.

It seems silly, asking that question at four in the morning. The thought of food makes Connor’s stomach churn. “No. Just tired.” Connor grimaces. “And my side hurts.”

“I’ll get you some medication. Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.” Hank stands and offers his hand to Connor.

After a brief detour to the bathroom, Connor returns to bed. He looks around the room and, sure enough, his blade has already been put away. Probably for the better not to have it in the open where he can think about it. The urge hasn’t yet passed, which is familiar yet unsettling.

Hank returns with two cups and a pill bottle. He hands the glass of water to Connor first and sets the mug on the bedside table, steaming hot and smelling like lemon. “Doing okay?” he asks.

“Better.” Connor takes the pill that Hank hands to him, swallowing it and drinking half the glass. He’s off the narcotics from now on and he hopes it will work well enough to keep him out of too much pain. Ironic, to want one sort of pain and reject another. Hank doesn’t comment on it.

He wonders how many nights Hank’s had to help him through. How many nights he’s had to help Hank, too, and what kind of troubles the android--his husband--faces. What sort of moments they’ve had in this room, the good and the bad, and if they’ve ever had breakfast in bed. What kinds of intimacy they’ve enjoyed and exactly what they’ve done on this bed, across those past few years of falling and staying in love with each other.

If nothing else, he’s glad for the pieces that remain: The affection and tender something he feels for Hank, and the little things that mean something to him, like the glow of his LED at night. He might not have all that he wants, but what he’s left with leaves him feeling warm.

The cup of tea is pushed into his hands, pulling him from his thoughts. He takes a sip: Lemon and ginger, just like his mom used to make. “Thank you,” he says as Hank joins him in bed. “You’re doing a lot to help me.”

“No less than you’d do for me,” Hank says. “I don’t know why you tolerate my grumpy ass sometimes, but I’ve always been able to count on you. In turn, I try to be the same kind of guy you are. I’m a bit less of a dick than I was when we met. So are you, thank God.”

“I’m hardly a role model.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a good man and you know it.”

“Thanks, I suppose.” Connor shakes his head. “This is too much for this early.”

“Valid. We can talk more in the morning.”

“You’re assuming I won’t sleep for eight hours straight.”

Hank grins. “If you sleep past ten, I’ll turn the thermostat too high and you’ll have no choice but to come out.”

“You’re a menace,” Connor grumbles. He takes another few sips of his drink, then sets it aside and burrows back under the covers. “I’m staying here for the rest of the winter.”

“Then you won’t get to see the puppies.”

“God, it’s four in the morning, Hank. I don’t have logic yet.”

Hank laughs, and the sound brings a small smile to Connor’s face. It’s a good change from whatever the past half hour has been--the whole week, at that. Connor decides Hank should definitely smile more, and he’d really like to be the cause for some of those smiles.

Connor’s heart feels a bit like mush at that thought, and for a moment he can see why he married Hank, the affection he has for the man blooming in his chest. Sure, he cares for him deeply even without knowing why, but the intensity hasn’t popped out at him until now, looking at the way Hank smiles and all the details that come with it, like the way his eyes light up and the gap between his teeth.

“I love you, Connor,” Hank says. He kisses Connor’s forehead. “Good night.”

“Good night, Hank.” Connor curls up at his side once again, closing his eyes with a sigh as the light goes out.

* * *

Waking up, Connor feels almost normal.

The pillow next to him is still warm and smells like Hank, the coconut-and-citrus scent of his shampoo clinging to the fabric. Bright sunlight illuminates the curtains from the outside. The smell of coffee and something suitably breakfast-y wafts through the room, and Connor can faintly hear the sound of the TV, too low to make out anything distinguishable but there nonetheless. It’s not the weekend, but it feels like what a perfect Saturday morning should be like.

Connor grabs some clothes, brushes his teeth, and takes a shower. He’s getting used to seeing and feeling his body as it is now, and he’s decidedly glad he’s had top surgery--and simple meta, as he discovered after a bit of exploration the other day, throwing his initial assumptions out of the water. The scars all over aren’t a shock any longer, and he’s becoming comfortable with the ones he never made himself. His facial hair feels normal, and he takes a strange delight in the stubble, making him look as lazy and tired as he feels. No shaving today, he decides.

The hot water dissipates his thoughts for a short while. Once out of the shower, he pulls on a sweater--another one of Hank’s--and some sweatpants. He nods at himself in the mirror, satisfied and looking almost put-together, and steps out into the hallway.

It turns out what he thought was the TV is actually the record player. Classic jazz plays quietly through the house. Hank sits at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee, looking at something on his laptop. Connor thinks for a moment about the logistics of androids using computers, then decides that he probably wouldn’t want his brain directly linked up to the internet if he were an android, especially not anything work-related.

“Morning,” Hank says. He takes his eyes off the screen for a moment, smiling as he takes in Connor’s outfit. He likes when Connor wears his clothes.

“Morning.” Connor pours himself some coffee and pops a painkiller, then sits across from Hank. There’s half an omelette in a pan on the stove, remnants of the other half on the plate at Hank’s seat. Just a normal day off work with his normal husband in his normal house. “Coffee smells nice.”

“Tastes nice, too, if you can drink it without burning your taste buds.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “Another android perk?”

“Nope.” Hank taps the rim of his mug. “I gotta add ice, remember? Million dollar mouth and all.”

“Yeah,” Connor says with a laugh. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t have a clue why Hank’s mouth would be expensive, either, unless it’s some sort of innuendo. He doesn’t think it is.

Connor’s halfway through his coffee before Hank speaks again. “How’d therapy go yesterday?”

“Got my form signed. Guy was a dick, though.”

“Shame. Get anything good from it?”

“Adrenaline,” Connor says, grimacing. “I almost punched his face.”

“That a habit of yours I should be concerned about?”

“Please, Hank. He wasn’t worth the effort.” Connor smiles into his coffee, a bit concerned himself over whether he’s punched someone before. He’s certainly never had the confidence for that.

Hank chuckles. “Okay, but you’re okay otherwise?”

Connor’s smile fades. “Do you mean about therapy or something else?”

“Anything.” Hank shrugs. “You’re not having an easy time.”

“I’m not,” Connor admits. His heart flutters uneasily, but he keeps his voice level. Hank knows about a lot of things, he reminds himself. The self-harm, the alcohol, the anxiety. This, at least, he can be honest about. “I’m thinking about finding a therapist. One who’s at least half decent. I don’t really want therapy, but this whole situation is kind of like the last straw.” He grins lopsidedly. “I feel like other people need it more than me, you know? Got a house, a job, a husband. From the outside, I look like I’ve got my life together.”

“You do, in a lot of ways. But even if everything were perfect, you’d be fine asking for help. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you want to explore this. I think you could make yourself happier,” Hank says. His words are so earnest, and Connor feels himself warm from the inside.

“I think it’s all this time off work making me restless. Boredom driving me to get therapy, who knew?” Connor finishes his coffee, downing it a little too quickly, then pushes aside the mug. “I’ve felt like a wreck this whole week, actually. Like the pieces of myself don’t fit together. I think my nightmare might have been a result of that stress.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Hank says. “You’ve had a shitty few weeks.”

“Speaking of, do you know when the last time I hurt myself was?” Connor asks. He’s nervous, but he has to remind himself that everyone around him already knows. “Everything’s kind of a blur in my head.”

“Three weeks ago. You worked too much overtime and your stress spiked.” Hank reaches out, resting one hand atop Connor’s. “Four weeks since you last drank.”

“That’s no so bad.”

“It’s progress to be proud of. I know you’re struggling, and I’m here for you. Always.”

Connor laces his fingers with Hank’s, looking at their entwined hands instead of his face. “There’s something else.”

“Yeah?”

Connor takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. “Can we go for a walk?”

Hank studies him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. It’s a nice day out.”

They bundle up in their winter clothing. Connor pulls on a beanie because, despite the sunlight, his hair is still damp and is definitely going to get cold the moment he steps outside. The bruise on his head feels tender under the pressure of his hat. Fortunately, the sidewalks are clear, so there’s little risk of losing his balance.

Connor lets Hank lead the way, taking his hand and walking at his side, feeling more comfortable for it. He still isn’t familiar with his own neighborhood. “How’s work been?” he asks.

“Same old,” Hank says. His breath fogs in the cold air. “I got assigned another case. Seems a lot more cut and dry than the last one, but it keeps me busy. Everyone misses you, by the way. They’ve left a bunch of cards and trinkets on your desk. Tina’s watering the succulent pot Ben got you.”

“They really care about me, don’t they?”

“Even Gavin, believe it or not. He’s still a dick, but he’s shaped up a bit since meeting your brother, even if he doesn’t always act like it,” Hank says. “Captain told me to make sure you don’t try going back too early, by the way. He knows how you are.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t have to worry about that. I need some time.” Connor squeezes Hank’s hand, letting his eyes drift to the scenery around them. It’s beautiful and quiet at this time of day, the snow that carpets the yards and houses sparkling in the sunlight, and icicles glinting brightly.

“How much time do you need?” Hank asks, easily picking up that there’s more to this.

“I’ll sort it out with the captain. That’s not the important part.” Connor looks up at Hank, seeing the other man watch him carefully, but his gaze doesn’t hold any suspicion or frustration. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it.”

“Whatever decisions you’ve made--”

“No, Hank, this isn’t about my decisions.”

“What’s going on, then? Is this about what’s had you upset all week?” Hank asks. “I know it’s not just your injury.”

“It is and it isn’t.” Connor looks away. “The concussion messed with my memory.”

Hank runs a thumb across the back of Connor’s hand. “How so?”

“Some of my memories are missing and I’m not sure they’re coming back. I don’t think I’ve lost any skills, and some things I know, but without the context,” Connor says.

Hank’s brows knit together. “How much is gone? Is it kind of like patchwork, where you remember some days and not others, or is it different?”

“My memory’s fucked.” Connor stops along the sidewalk, looking up at the tree beside them. It glistens with ice and melting droplets. “It’s like I went to sleep at college and woke up in the hospital the next day,” he says quietly. “All of a sudden I had a new name and a new face, and it feels like I don’t know anything about anything.”

“It’s just gone?”

“Completely.” Connor looks back at Hank, heart beating fast in his chest. “Anything I can remember is scattered and vague. I don’t know what happened across all those years unless there’s a photo of it on my phone, and even then, there’s nothing.” He gestures to his head with his free hand. “Poof. Only crumbs left behind.”

“Everything since college?” Hank asks, and Connor can see that Hank’s begun to realize the depth of this, with the slight widening of his eyes and the burgeoning sadness he’s trying to hide.

“I don’t remember our wedding, or meeting you, or anything. I don’t remember you, Hank.” Connor takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady his voice. His side hurts. “I’m struggling. All this shit no one’s supposed to know about me and now they do. I don’t know my own routines or medical information. I’ve got so many scars and no idea what the hell happened across all those years. I don’t know what’s normal anymore. I don’t know who I even am. I’m as self-conscious as I’ve ever been, except I think I wasn’t like that last week, but I wouldn’t fucking know!”

The street is quiet after that, Hank holding Connor’s hand silently until the anger drains out of him, leaving him woozy. He’s more clear-headed than he’s been for the past few days, and a dull pain takes over from the fog of the drugs.

“I can’t do anything about it,” Connor says. “All I can do is keep moving forward. My brothers want to help fill in the missing memories.” He shrugs. “They found out. I love them, but they feel half like strangers. So much has changed.”

“You’ve been holding this in since you woke up, haven’t you?” Hank’s voice is low and grounding.

Connor lets go of Hank’s hand and wraps his arm around Hank’s waist instead. “I wanted to do everything by myself so that no one would think less of me. Turns out I’m not a perfect liar.”

“You sure had me fooled.” Hank reciprocates the gesture, his hand resting warmly at Connor’s waist. “This is a lot,” he admits. “How can I help you through this?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, then he shakes his head. “I’ve been holding my tongue all week. Think you can manage if I ask you a bunch of questions?” Despite knowing about this from the beginning, Connor still doesn’t have any solid idea what to do. Asking for answers as the questions come to mind could be a start.

“Go right ahead. Even if they’re weird or awkward. Do you want me to fill you in on things if I think you’re missing something?”

“Please.” Connor feels the tension ease inside of him. He glances up at Hank, meeting his eyes. “Is this okay? I’m not the same person you married.”

“Sure you are. We all change, and it doesn’t mean I’ll love you any less for it. But I can, uh, make sure not to push you or anything. Keep my hands to myself.” Hank clears his throat. “You know.”

The memory of Hank’s offer to get him off last night turns Connor’s cheeks pink. “I like you,” he says, which is as simply as he can put it. “I care about you. I might even love you, but I don’t know. I like when you’re affectionate.”

“I won’t get all touchy-feely with you, I mean.” Hank’s own face is turning pink, and it’s certainly not from the cold.

Connor laughs. “We’ll need to work up to that. I’ve never… I mean, clearly I have, but it feels like I haven’t, and I’m not even familiar with anything in that box in the--” He snaps his mouth shut. “I mean. Yeah. Good idea.”

Hank’s grin returns in full force. “Help yourself to anything in that box. It’s mostly for you, anyway. I won’t get weird about it.”

“Okay, good to know. Great talk.” Connor walks a half-circle around Hank, not wanting to let go but turning the two of them back towards home. “I should probably eat something.”

“You normally eat salads,” Hank says, voice taking on a more subdued tone. He stays beside him as they walk. “Your diet’s got too much caffeine and not enough protein. Something about trying to stay healthy and get all your vitamins.”

“Are they at least good salads?”

“For the most part, they’re nutritious and filling, but it’s the blandest goddamn diet I’ve had the misfortune of encountering.”

Connor steps around an ice patch. “It doesn’t sound appealing,” he agrees, “but I’ll need to keep it in mind, I guess. In case changing my diet fucks me up.”

“You should be fine. How do you feel about paninis for lunch? There’s this place you really like, and they do delivery. Everywhere does,” Hank says.

“Sounds better than salad. It would go great with your soup.” The thought of melted cheese makes Connor’s stomach growl.

“Con, sweetheart, you do not need to eat my soup.”

“Rumor has it that your cooking sucks,” Connor says, “but it makes me feel warm and cared for, and your soup’s not half bad. It’s got, like… salt, and everything. It doesn’t need to be perfect for me to like it.”

“It’s got salt.” Hank snorts. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said about my cooking. Alright. Paninis and soup it is.”

“Have we ever tried cooking together?” Connor asks. “Or do we prefer not to be in the kitchen at the same time?”

“You chop salads, I make whatever the hell combination of flavors I think will taste good. Our tastes don’t mix. Not usually, at least.”

“What if we tried?”

“We can.” Hank nods. “Okay, yeah, let’s give it a go. Sometime when you’re not struggling to walk, I mean. I don’t want you pushing yourself.”

“I needed some fresh air,” Connor huffs. “I promise I’ve got some sense in me. I won’t push past my limits.”

“I believe you,” Hank says. “Just know that I’m here if you need anything, okay?”

Hank’s demonstrated that point clearly enough, and finally, Connor feels like he can trust him without reserve. “Okay,” he says, tightening his hold on Hank. He wants to stop bottling everything inside. “Okay.”

* * *

The next couple of days, life is easier. Connor hesitates to ask questions, but he does as they come to mind, and the people around him share anecdotes when they think to do so, lending him a better understanding of his own life. The meeting with Captain Fowler on Friday goes well--he’ll be retrained and put on desk duty, subject to an evaluation at a later date--and Connor manages a full ten hours upright before passing out the second his head hits the pillow.

He can barely keep his head from spinning, overwhelmed as he is, and when he returns home with Hank on Saturday, he lets their new puppy loose and seats himself in the middle of the floor, exhausted and determined not to think any more today.

The puppy darts about, exploring and sniffing and finding his footing, while Connor and Hank watch him with goofy grins on their faces.

“I can’t believe we actually have a puppy,” Hank says, sitting on the sofa. “He’s got so much energy. And he’s so fucking soft.”

“He’s the biggest damn puppy I’ve ever seen. He’s going to change our lives,” Connor murmurs. The dog’s already made a home in his heart, and Connor wonders if this is what new parents feel like. “What do you think about that? Two life-changing events in one week?”

“If you think about it, every little thing changes our lives, from what we eat or say to the big decisions we make. I see it all the time.” Hank taps his LED. “I could run a preconstruction to see where likely and unlikely sequences of events could take us. Sometimes I do, but a process like that can take ages, so I just pick the most interesting outcomes.”

“Like an imagination, huh?” Connor asks. He watches the puppy disappear into the kitchen, nails clattering across the linoleum. “I used to know that.”

“You did.”

“I used to know how you interpret flavor. How you perceive feelings, physical and emotional. What it means when your LED changes, no matter the situation.”

“Do you feel like it’s a loss?” Hank asks, turning his piercing blue eyes on Connor.

Connor frowns and looks away. The puppy’s busy opening cupboards, apparently, and he’s thankful Hank had the foresight to move any chemicals out of them ahead of time. “It’s frustrating to feel like I’m missing something, but I don’t feel like I’ve lost something when I don’t remember having it in the first place.”

“So don’t think of it as something you’re lacking,” Hank says. “You’ve got a lot of opportunity to learn about whatever you want. I’m not gonna pity you or pass any judgment.”

“I used to know what our plans were,” Connor says. “We planned to get a puppy, apparently. What else?”

“Well.” Hank leans back. “We’ve always talked about decorating the house. You threw out a lot of your stuff before moving. Some phase where you didn’t want junk anymore.”

“Did we ever talk about kids?” The thought of that sort of responsibility scares Connor, but he needs to know. “Did we think about adopting?”

“It’s never come up,” Hank says. “I don’t think you wanted to. You’re pretty good at addressing things head-on. Your medical records--” He bites his lip, glancing away.

Connor’s heart leaps to his throat. “What about my medical records?” he asks, voice low.

“You never talked about it, so I don’t know how you felt. You had a miscarriage when you were twenty-six,” Hank says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know if your brothers would know anything about it.”

“Oh.” Connor sits there for a moment, listening to the puppy explore the kitchen. “That’s… I need time to think about that one.”

“Do you want kids?”

“Hank, I just want to get my life back on track. I can’t think about that right now.” Connor takes a deep breath. It’s like one worry being exchanged for another. “I know this whole situation is hurting you, too. Or will do, if it hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“I’ve got a therapist I can vent to about that.”

Connor scoots closer, leaning against the couch, the side of his arm touching Hank’s leg. “We’re married, remember? I should be here for you, too.”

“I won’t hide shit from you, Con. I promise. But it won’t do either of us any good for me to dump my emotional problems on you right now. I’ve got a whole mess of them, not just the stress of this. But… yeah, I’ll talk to you about it sometime.” Hank slides off the sofa to join Connor on the floor, then snaps his fingers and whistles.

The puppy runs back over to them, stumbling once but not slowing his pace. He bumps nose-first into Hank’s leg, then barks, nosing at his hand, and Hank laughs.

Connor grabs a toy from the bag on the couch--a rope toy--and offers it to the puppy, who abandons Hank’s hand to bite onto the rope and attempt to pull it away. It takes a second bite before he can get a solid grip. Connor keeps hold of the rope until Hank raises an eyebrow at him, then he lets go, letting the puppy claim victory. “You win!” Connor declares, rubbing the puppy all over. He can feel his energy coming back. “Who’s a good boy? You’re such a good boy.”

“I think that toy’s a win,” Hank says, joining in until the puppy runs off, toy in tow.

Connor digs through the bag and pulls out a tennis ball, waving it around, but it doesn’t capture the dog’s attention, which remains fixed on the rope he’s proudly carrying, tail wagging furiously. “Guess he likes to wrestle.”

“Yeah.” Hank grins, glancing at Connor then back at the puppy. “Hey, Sumo! C’mere!”

“Sumo?” Connor asks. He barely has the word out before the pup is back beside Hank, barking and dropping the toy, ready to play.

Hank shrugs. “Well, he likes the name.”

“Sumo. Really.”

The puppy carries the rope back over to Connor, unable to sit still.

“Wouldn’t want to confuse him,” Hank says. “Too late, that’s his name now.”

“Goddamnit, Hank, names should mean something.” Connor picks up the toy by the dry end and Sumo quickly takes hold, pulling at it with all his strength. “Not just be picked out of thin air.”

“Alright, mister ‘I named myself after a law office sign.’ What should we call him, then?”

Connor squeaks and lets go, letting Sumo tumble over himself before walking off victoriously. “I did not tell you about that.”

Hank bumps their shoulders together. “Yeah, you did. Your brothers know, too.”

“Oh, my god. I’m absolutely mortified.” Connor can’t seem to will the heat away from his face. “I should’ve picked another name. Liam. John. Not-Connor.”

“Sometimes you need to see the right name at the right time. And, you know, it fits you.”

“I’m still getting used to hearing it. Like it’s not quite real yet. But it’s on my driver’s license.” Connor tilts his head. “Did you choose your name?”

“Not Hank, no. But I chose Anderson.”

“Sorry?”

“Detective Hank Anderson,” Hank says. “Has a nice ring to it. Back when they started requiring androids to get legal IDs, they let us pick surnames. We weren’t engaged yet, so I didn’t choose Arkait.”

“Why Anderson, then? Something from a magazine?” Connor asks.

“There was this kid, back when they were testing me with some physical simulated scenarios after I’d passed the virtual ones. A child android.” Hank pets Sumo when he returns, but the action is subdued. “They made him play human, so he had a full name. Cole Henry Anderson.”

Something turns in Connor’s stomach. He reaches out to pet Sumo, his hand brushing against Hank’s. “Did he deviate?”

“I think so.” Hank shakes his head. “A couple weeks in, I failed a test. No more Cole. But we were out of time, so they scrubbed that test from my record and approved me for release. Like it was all nothing but a score.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was built for investigation and negotiation, with police and military capabilities. I failed a hostage negotiation,” Hank says, words clipped.

“God,” Connor whispers. He leans against Hank, one hand still petting Sumo, the dog relaxed on Hank’s lap. “I’m sorry.”

“I was the only friendly face that kid ever knew.” Hank sniffs. “A lot of androids we’ve lost don’t have anyone to remember them, but I don’t want to forget him. We came from the same place; having the same last name is only fitting.”

“Thank you for telling me. There’s still so much I don’t know.”

“The revolution sucked. I’ll tell you about it all sometime. Hell, you were with me for most of it.” Hank kisses Connor’s temple. “I took your last name as my middle name, by the way. Hyphenating would’ve been a mouthful.”

Connor laughs quietly. “I don’t think that name would fit on anything.”

“It would fit on you.”

“Smooth.” Connor grins, then leans forward and captures Hank’s lips in a kiss. He feels giddy and light and a touch somber, all of it mixing in his chest in a way that makes him feel like this is the way things should be. Sumo huffs at the movement, but he’s calmed down with all the petting and started to doze off. “Maybe it’ll fit on a dog collar.”

“Sumo Arkait-Anderson?”

“Yeah, let’s call him Sumo. I’m not naming a dog John.” Connor boops Sumo’s nose with his finger, satisfied with the blink he receives. “Here’s to a new chapter of our lives, boy. It’s gonna be an adventure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter as @gildedfrost (18+), and I spend time in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) DBH Discord server as well!


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